


Too Close to the Sun

by MagicMight



Series: A Sisyphean Endeavor [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety, But we won't see him for a bit, Depression, F/M, Forever, Implied/Reference Eating Disorder, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loss, M/M, PTSD, Pain, Possessive relationships, Post War, Recovery, Snape Lives, Toxic Relationships, Trauma, War Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-26 03:55:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14992202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicMight/pseuds/MagicMight
Summary: A little over a year after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter is doing his best to move on, but as old demons rear their ugly heads, Harry realizes he's not so much "recovered"—at least not the way everyone expects him to be. Nor has he moved on from one Severus Snape--who seems to be doing more than just haunting his nightmares.But he's dead...isn't he?





	1. Faking Normal

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my GOSH GUYS! I’m so sorry I’ve made you wait so long—I wonder if you’re all used to it at this point, however?
> 
> Lol, so—here it is, the “sequel”...more of a time-jump, I guess!
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> Oh, trigger warning for some self-destructive behaviors ahead.
> 
> FYI I hit post instead of save draft...too lazy to fix it so here’s a short chapter that ends a bit abruptly—I owe you guys SOMETHING, don’t I? And hey, at least it ends relatively happy. Chapter 2 will be posted ASAP to give this bit some closure :) 
> 
> (seriously, I’m working on this at work when I should be calming real crisis in the community but FUCK IT!)
> 
> I can’t even call it spoiling since this fic has been going for like...4 years with sporadic updates, as is the nature of fan-fiction. I love you all for your comments and loyalty, I wouldn’t have continued writing without you.

Harry could not, for any amount of happiness in the world, drag himself out of bed this morning. Severus could have materialized at Sirius’s-turned-his bedroom door and, still, he would have lain there, not moving. Not caring.

Maybe he shouldn’t go that far. That far was a little like _too far_. He rolled his eyes at himself and, with a deep groan, shoved the covers off of himself and pressed the soles of his feet hard against the ever-cold, always cold stone floors. He found himself wondering almost every morning (on those mornings he did make it out of bed) whether or not the Black's had long since enchanted the home to remain bitter cold unless seated around a fire.

There was nothing in the entire universe that he wouldn’t do for Snape to be alive—alive, even if Severus hated him terribly for everything Harry had knowingly (and unknowingly) put him through. At least he would be very alive, which was entirely better than very, extremely dead.

Not an ounce of comfort lay in Grimmauld Place. He suspected that his subconscious was rooting him here on purpose, so that he may infest himself with the guilt that was eating away at his blood soul. Hermione had half a mind to suggest he move out, get a place in Godric's Hollow, maybe. Or near her and Ron who had recently moved out of the Burrow and into one of the Order's old safehouses, at Kingsley's bequest, the only stipulation that they do all the upkeep and house those still struggling to get on their feet after the war if needed. Hermione had been thrilled at the idea, though he knew Ron wasn't keen on sharing his house with strangers, he didn't let on at all--for that, Harry could say Ron had definitely matured. 

Harry was happy for them, truly, only he couldn't feel the happiness in his core. He felt it on the outside, with superficial smiles and accepting invitations to dinner, cooked by Hermione, as Ron was helpless in the kitchen (something Harry couldn't understand, as Mrs. Weasley's cooking had been better than the House Elves--).

House Elves.

Dobby.

_Dobby, I'm sorry. I never meant..._

His heart ached. With a steel knife in his chest, Harry propelled himself out of the room and, instead of heading for a shower, he made the descent to his study where he'd borrowed (stolen) and put Dumbledore's Pensieve. The same Pensieve that Snape's memories swirled in, after all this time. The moment he sank into the memories, Harry willed himself not to acknowledge the fact that he knew, hours later, he would resurface from the memories in far worse a state than when he entered.

It happened any time he watched and re-watched them all.

The room was under lock and key, charmed so that no one else but he could enter. He'd never shown Ron and Hermione the memories, despite the time Hermione had gently asked if she could share in this with him while Ron looked hopeful that Harry might agree to a notion so ridiculous.

His resounding and relatively dead-sounding " _Absolutely not. Never_ ," seemed to have deflated them. It had certainly discouraged them from ever asking again, but that didn't mean Hermione didn't try and slowly hedge for him to get rid of his...sadistic shrine, of sorts.

When Harry had finally had his fill, he let himself leave the Pensieve. His chest was thick with hatred, sadness, anger, and guilt. All aimed towards himself. He didn't even realize what day it was until he left the room and saw Hedwig--

No, not Hedwig. It would never be Hedwig again. She was dead, and the replacement bird that Charlie had bought him, while lovely, put a heavy weight in his chest every time he received or sent a letter. The bird was incredible. She never nipped at him, she urged him to reply to his friends owls with gentle hoots or a swat with her talons. He hadn't been able to name her, instead calling her "Girl" or "She" had sufficed. He never wanted to give name to anything he could lose ever again.

But there She was, hooting indignantly with a tightly rolled scroll attached to her leg. Harry retrieved it, stroked her as affectionately as he could muster, and told her there was some left over bacon on the counter from...yesterday, he thought? If She wanted.

He unfurled the parchment as he made his way to the bathroom, his limbs heavy. Hermione's familiar, tidy cursive looked back at him.

_Happy Birthday, Harry!_

_We haven't heard from you in a few days--I have to admit, I'm getting a little worried. Ron is too, though he'd never tell you to your face._

_Molly's asked if we're still on tonight for your birthday and, well, I took the liberty of telling her yes. Please don't be angry. We all miss you terribly and only want to celebrate you._

_If nothing else, come to the Burrow so that you can avoid that horrid gala they're throwing in your honor. I know the press is lingering about, once you leave you can beg off with the simple excuse that you're spending this day with loved ones._

_If you don't, I promise I'll show up at your door and drag you out and to the gala, which would be a shame, since Molly has really outdone herself. She misses you. Please, don't make me do this._

_Much love,_

_Hermione_

Harry knew that, when Hermione promised, she meant it more than anything. He was certain if he didn't show up at the Burrow 'round six o'clock, he be dragged from Grimmauld Place, kicking and screaming (though most of the kicking and screaming would happen internally). He decided, devoutly so, that he would much rather spend the evening at the Burrow instead of the Gala that was being thrown in his honor. When you kill a murderous mad man (a die yourself, though that was known to only few) your birthday becomes a holiday for the whole world to share in. It becomes about what you've done for them--no matter how painful the reminders that come with what you've done might be.

He really wished he could have gone back to bed, or nursed a bottle of something, but he new it wasn't an option and, as much as he hated himself these days, he did find solace in their company. If nothing else, they still loved him unconditionally.

He showered quickly upon realizing it was half five. He threw on a pair of dark-wash jeans and a sensible emerald green button-up. Comfortable, casual, and there was a clear sign that he'd put some effort, above all, into this--just enough effort in his appearance that it wouldn't look like he was trying to hard, nor that he cared too little. Hermione noticed this sort of thing, as did Charlie and Percy. He had to play the game. At 5:55pm, he stepped out of Grimmauld place, the door step, waved off the infernally tedious (his internal Snape sneaking into his thoughts) and waved them off with a simple: "I'll be spending the evening with loved ones."

A turn on his heel and a sharp landing later, Harry found himself just outside the door to the burrow.

He raised his hand to knock, only to realize that he'd never done that before. Somehow, even though Mrs. Weasley had put such effort into this day to...celebrate him, he felt as if he was intruding. He wished they wouldn't celebrate him at all. There was nothing to celebrate. It was his fault Fred was dead. His fault that Remus and Tonks couldn't be here--

He opened the door without another tedious thought and was abruptly assaulted by a tiny-teetering child, hair magenta, a nose like an elephant, and kindness that matched Remus's own, "Teddy! You wild boy, put this away," Harry teasingly scolded, tapping the tiny trunk before he scooped the boy into his arms and gave him a tender hug, "Andromeda--it's good to see you, Ted--" Andromeda, who still sometimes made him start with her painful resemblance to Bellatrix (before he chanted in his head that the wild bitch was utterly dead) stepped forward to press a kiss to his cheek, while Ted held out a firm hand and shook Harry's free one tightly--warmly. He hardly heard what they said to him, muttered a 'thank you', as he was sure some of it must've included a Happy Birthday.

They'd grown very close this past year. Harry had made it a point to be as involved with Teddy as he could be, only he was terrible at locking his sadness away. His last letter from Andromeda had made him ashamed:

_'Teddy said today, in not so many words, that you must miss mummy and daddy as much as he does. Please take care of yourself, Harry.'_

And he'd never responded. Harry set Teddy down as he was squealing while Pigwidgeon and Crookshanks had maneuvered excitedly into the room with one another. The orange tabby, thick and wild with her fur, jump at Teddy, knocking him gently against the couch while he took fistfulls of her fur and pressed his chubby cheeks against her face, will Pig tattered around his head and hooted delightfully when Teddy reached for him.

The sight brought him near to tears. He turned away immediately, only to be wrapped up in the warm, tight arms of Mrs. Weasley, who had never quite regained her roundness after the war. Arthur was there next, Hagrid was waving from the corner, too large to stand and feeling it was too much effort to make his way to Harry--

His chest was tight. He didn't think he could take much more of this. He turned again for an escape and was relieved to find Hermione, who grabbed his left hand as Ron forced a glass into his left. They were saying something about the Garden Gnomes as they led him out the back door, where he could see Ginny and Neville sitting on the patio, Bill, Fleur, and Charlie standing idly together, sipping their own glasses--

"Somewhere else," Harry managed, his breath coming in even shorter spurts now and he was grateful for Hermione, who waved a hand and told everyone they needed a moment to catch up.

On the side of the house, Harry held a hand to his chest and tried to remind himself to breathe.

"There you are mate, in and out, nice and easy. We've all the time in the world--" Ron urged gently.

Hermione watched him, not even bothering with a sad smile. She talked him through the deep breathing exercises that he'd told her helped him, the ones that...the ones that Charity had taught him, before her closeness to him had gotten her killed.

_Don't, Harry. Stop it._

His inner-Snape reprimanded him. He certainly wouldn't calm himself down if he kept up like this.

Remembering the Whisky in his hand, Harry felt relief, lifted the glass to his lips, and drained it in one go. Ron took it upon himself to go get Harry some more, while Hermione busied herself with trying to distract him.

”I couldn’t believe how big Teddy had gotten when Andromeda showed up with him before! And he couldn’t stop baby-babbling about you either, it was the most adorable thing—“ once it looked as if he had his wits about him again, Hermione gently squeezed his hand, “It’s alright, Harry. It’s going to be a great evening, let’s just forget everything for a few hours,” she smiled at him bravely, and for the first time he could see the sadness (perhaps guilt) that crinkled the corners of her eyes and tightened the smile that used to come so easy to her. Harry often forgot that he was not the only one who had experienced the war.

Hermione’s parents were still in Australia—she would go to them soon and attempt to de-modify their memories, but she’d spoken to Kingsley and he’d advised she wait until they had rounded up the last of the Death Eaters. Not all of them had died or been captured that day, many had fled as Harry had jumped out of Hagrid’s arms, having felt that, since Harry had survived their Lord twice, he must truly be the one who would defeat him. The Death Eater’s who had escaped occasionally struck out. Churches up in flames, muggles strewn about in obscene positions. Well known muggeborn families gone missing. 

It was safer to keep the Grangers away for now, as much as it was taking its toll on Hermione.

He squeezed her hand back and nodded, more to appease her than to convince himself but, as Ron handed him a refill, Harry closed his eyes and made a wish around a brief sip. Just get through this. Enjoy yourself so everyone else can have a nice time, too. 

Feeling more courageous with the subtle heat of Ogden’s best in his veins, Harry followed Ron and Hermione out from the side of the Burrow where he’d been afforded what he swore would be his only panic attack of the night. 

“‘arry! Happy birthday,” Fleur cooed and kisses either cheek, an affectionate (and more motherly) tone in her voice. He attributed this to the sleeping baby in Bill’s arms. Since Victoire had been born, Fleur had left Gringotts and Bill had ceased curse-breaking tombs in Egypt, if only to have more time at home (and less likelihood that he’d accidentally trap himself in an ancient pyramid for the rest of his life). Bill shook his hand warmly, held it for an extra moment and smiled proudly as Harry praised baby Victoire tiny, beautiful hands.

Charlie was next and, Harry knew not to be caught off guard by his brusque, absolute lack of shyness as a pair of warms lips pressed against his own. The entire Weasley brood knee they were...dating, of a sort. Harry wasn’t sure they could earnestly call it that, as Harry often disappeared for days at a time and also often tried hard to push Charlie away, despite the others refusal to give up on him. Harry was grateful for that, as Charlie had seen and pulled him out of some of his darkest moments post-war. Bill and Fleur excused themself to feed Victoire who was stirring noisily in Bill’s arms. Neville and Luna waved brightly from the garden chairs they were sitting in but didn’t call him over as it seemed Charlie wasn’t quite finished consuming Harry’s time. Harry noticed only then that Ron and Hermione had separated from them and were making their way to Luna and Neville.

”Birthday boy, it’s good to see you. Had half a mind to drag you here,” Charlie admitted, a smile ghosting his lips.

”Would’ve preferred that over Hermione’s threat to drag me to the gala if I didn’t show up,” he laughed softly and was relieved to feel it reach his eyes, “I’m happy I came. It’s...better here.”

Charlie grunted his agreement, as he had seen the dark cocoon of Grimmauld Place that Harry often isolated himself to. It was a house he’d warped to contain his grief. Charlie had told him once that he was conditioning himself to grieve, the way sadness had latched onto every bit of that house. He’d said it felt like a Dementor was lingering in the walls, rattling and sucking the happiness out of every ounce of the place. Harry had had half a mind to check.

”Are you sure you should be drinking?” Charlie wondered idly, and Harry couldn’t help but shoot him a frustrated look—as if this wasn’t hard enough, you want me to try it sober?—before Harry could answer, a sharp retort on his tongue, Charlie held up his hands in surrender, “It’s alright, never mind. I understand.”

 _No you don’t,_ “Right.”

He tried not to flashback to the time Charlie had shown up at Grimmauld to check on him, worried about the lack of sense Harry’s last owl had made, worried about how Harry ignored his firecalls. He tried not to see Charlie’s pained face as he took in the bottles that littered every inch of the kitchen countertops. Was desperate not to hear Charlie’s concerned whisper as Harry stumbled up the stairs and fell into the landing where he shoved the other’s string, scarred hands away.

When his eyes met Charlie’s now, he could see that Charlie was trying not to remember the same things, “I promise I’ll take it easy—though, if I don’t, might be I’ll have to spend the night,” Harry teased, the last bit he whispered into Charlie’s ear (or more like his neck) as Harry brushed past to finally properly greet Neville and Luna who immediately carried on about the Wrackspurts surrounding him, for which she completed a series of hand gestures to “cleanse” his aura.

He would never say it aloud, for he knew Hermione had turned away to roll her eyes—but he did, genuinely so, feel a bit better.

(And was, in part, trying to ignore the fact that he had missed them all desperately, and their good moods really had helped pull him above the surface).

 

 

 

 

 


	2. The End of July 31st

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, as promised, the other half of Harry's birthday and...well a bit of something else. 
> 
> I’m writing this while on my phone at work—all grammatical mistakes or spelling errors are due to autocorrect! ;)
> 
> Much love to you all! Happy reading!
> 
> Oh and trigger warnings always apply.

They were huddled about; they being Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Luna, Charlie, George, Bill, and Fleur, listening to a dramatic rehashing from Ron about his first driving lesson with Hermione. Harry’s face ached from using muscles he’d forgotten he had had, tears of laughter leaking from the corners of his eyes. Ron was saying something about the ruddy police officer that had tried to pull him over, before he’d cast a confundus and had the officer pulling a “U-ee” to chase after a non-existent cyclist, when Harry was struck with a sense of such heavy gratitude.

As Ron’s lively, cuss-laden tale came to an end and the chortling died down, Harry blurted: “I’m really bloody glad I came.”

Which set Hermione off, half-laughing half-crying as she threw her arms around Harry and kissed his temple. He nodded at Ron with a wink as he tapped the remainder of Hermione’s glass with his wand, transfiguring her wine to water teasingly. As she went to take a sip, she cried out, “Oh, _Ronald_!” and tossed her water at him, perfectly good-natured. Ron wrapped an arm around her waist from behind and lifted her effortlessly, which elicited a positively delighted shriek from Hermione. Harry watched unashamedly as they finally turned towards one another and kissed deeply, undoubtedly encouraged by the buzz of alcohol in their veins. He felt elated. The fact that they could have experienced the same war as the rest of them and come out of it so helplessly in love...same as Bill and Fleur who were also sharing a moment...same as Luna and Neville--

He swallowed thickly and left the backyard, his feet propelling him away from the happy, love-drunk couples around him, and found himself inside, hiding in the same room he and Snape had hid once, stealing their own private moment on Christmas Eve two years ago. Harry realized he wasn't...sad, or upset, just reliving the moment. Wishing Snape was there with him. Wishing he could have told them all how hard and fast he'd fallen in love with Severus. And vice versa. Remus had said that things were different in the Wizarding World. Age and gender didn't matter--if Harry and Snape were together now, they would have trusted his judgement. They would have accepted Severus. Harry knew it were true, but knowing it was true did nothing for his mood. It only served to remind him of his loss.

Harry forced himself out of the room, if only to escape his slowly becoming sordid mood.

”Oh—there you are, dear! Come sit, I’ve made all your favorites!” Molly coddled shooing him back outside to the table Arthur and Bill had transfigured sometime during his disappearance. Charlie was watching him closely, lips pursed, but he didn’t say anything then, nor did he a moment later as Harry filled his glass again.

Harry eyed the empty chair at the head of the table, staring grimly back at Mr. Weasley who frowned for the briefest of moments— _for the ones we’ve lost_ , Harry remembered the toast at his birthday last year, no matter how much he protested, Molly insisted they celebrate. Something about trying to return to normal. 

He said nothing as Mrs. Weasley filled his plate for him. Since the war had finished, Harry realized she was using this overbearing sort of protectiveness as a method for coping. Normally it would have set him off, had him ranting and raving—but things weren’t normal anymore, no matter how hard they tried to pretend it was as such, “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley—everything looks incredible,” Harry said warmly before he dug in, ignoring the fact that all this rich food was sure to have his stomach in knots before the night’s end. He had sent Kreacher to work for Hogwarts, burnt toast and beans was as creative as his meals ever got, if he was even in the mood to eat at all.

The chatter around the table was light, free-spirited. Their losses hung in the air around them, but not quite as heavy as they had on previous occasions. It was...comforting to be with them all. To realize that they could move on, they could heal. And surely, if they could, he could too, right? The guilt would fade in time. It had to. He couldn't imagine feeling rocks in his throat every time he looked at George and saw Fred, or when he looked at Teddy's electric blue hair and saw too, the same kind features as Remus. Harry had spent so much of his life blaming himself for everything that he hadn't really had much of a chance to live. Quidditch had been an escape, once. But what could he do now? 

Kingsley had offered him the chance to train as an auror. He'd considered it, really truly thought about working to catch the last of the Death Eater's. He was sure that, perhaps, if he was able to round them all up, it might gift him a sort of closure.

But the thought of dedicating another part of his life to defeating the darkness in this world--Harry couldn't stomach it, and he was very glad he'd finished his roast and the potatoes Mrs. Weasley had slaved over.

They sang him happy birthday, he blew out his candles without making a wish. Mrs. Weasley summoned surprise treacle tart (his favorite). Harry forced himself to eat a large slice, cut by Mrs. Weasley who seemed oblivious to his discomfort. As they all fell into a food coma, Harry excused himself and darted for the furthest bathroom in order to avoid any of them hearing his obscene wretching. It wasn't as if he was forcing himself--he had barely made it to the bowl before his stomach heaved and the contents spilled with a burn only stomach acid and Ogden's best could cause. 

He washed his hands, rinsed his mouth, and doused his face with handfuls of cold water. He dropped down on the ledge of the tub, his chest heaving with breaths he didn't have, the exertion of purging his perceived sins left him empty. Both of feeling and of air. It wasn't until the knock on the door that Harry realized he must've been gone for a very long time.

"Oi, Snake whisperer--the adults have all gone, why don't you come out and join us?"

Harry let out a chuckle. It was Charlie. With a snap of his fingers, the door opened, allowing the second eldest Weasley entry. Harry shielded his face for as long as possible in order to hide the tears in his eyes and the redness in his face that came with getting sick. Somehow, though, Charlie still knew, Harry could tell from the silence he was met with upon allowing the other entry wordlessly. The redhead fixed him with a look and all Harry could do was sigh, "I'm sorry, Charlie--I swear, it was a miracle I made it to a toilet. I didn't do it on purpose, it's been ages since I have--"

"I know, Harry. You can't blame a bloke for worrying though, can you?"

"Of course not."

"How 'bout we join t'others for a drink and head home?"

"Sounds good," but all Harry wanted was to be alone. Charlie deserved so much more. Deserved someone who wasn't pining after the memories of a dead man. Someone who wasn't drinking himself through every social occasion or to get to sleep. Someone who wasn't trying to track down the last of the dark wizards on his own in the hope that they would kill him. 

Harry filled his glass with Ogden's. His stomach was empty, his tolerance high. He drained his glass in one go and ignored the way Charlie shook his head and said nothing. Harry was long since tired of dealing with secrets and covert signs of disappointment. At least Snape called him on his shit. Left him when he couldn’t stand watching it anymore. Charlie was much harder to shake, and Harry hated himself more each day that passed and Charlie still cared about him.

He knew what he had to do. He had to let Charlie go and it had to hurt. Otherwise, Harry would go on hurting him. Making him unhappy. He was holding Charie back.

As he and Charlie filed into Grimmauld Place, Harry made his distance quickly and surely.

"You--You're not going to control me. You've got no business disproving of my ch-choices!" Harry snapped, shoving Charlie away as he reached to steady him on the stairs. Harry landed harshly while Charlie looked on, pity so plainly etched on his face that Harry refused to, no—couldn’t even look at him, "Do you think you can fix me? You can’t, Charlie. I’m beyond fixing and you should realize that and fuck off. Find someone who deserves you,” Harry stumbled over himself and landed on the floor of his bedroom. He barely felt it but knew the pain would set in tomorrow. 

The confusion and hurt on Charlie’s face had him immediately recanting. Apologizing profusely as the alcohol in his empty stomach took him over and sent him into the grief-spun spiral Charlie had seen too many times before. It was hard to hurt someone you cared about, harder even when the person was so good, “Just go, Charlie—I’ve already hurt you, I’ll keep hurting you. You deserve better s-so just go and don’t come back.”

”Harry—“ Charlie stepped forward, a hand out stretch to help him up, but he smacked it away and sneered at him with venom even Snape would have admired. If he weren’t dead.

_Because of me._

“You’re not going to push me away. I won’t let you anymore. You need help—you need—“

”Don’t fucking tell me what I need! You have no idea—I lost—“  _and it was all my fault._

”You’re not the only one who hurts, you know!” Charlie’s anger was heavy and loud, so loud it startled Harry, Charlie had never lost his temper around Harry before, but he was familiar with Weasley rage, “We’ve all lost someone! The war took something from all of us! Buck up and stop feeling sorry for yourself!”

Harry stood and stumbled, his hands shot out and shoved Charlie as the other tried to help him, “I don’t want to be around you right now.”

”I’m sorry, I—it just kills me to see you like this,” Charlie’s words were thick with apprehension, but there was only one way this could go, “You act like you hate yourself.”

Harry’s eyes burned so dark they looked even greener and then he laughed a bitter, sardonic laugh that almost reminded Charlie of Tom Riddle that day at Hogwarts, when he thought he'd won, that Harry was dead, "I do. Get out.”

”Harry, don’t do this.”

If Charlie was going to force him to make it hurt, Harry supposed he didn't have a choice, ” _I_ don’t want to be with _you_. I _don’t_ want _you_. Get the fuck out,” Harry turned away from him, a gesture of finality. Charlie hesitated, but when the lights flickered and Harry’s shoulders trembled with the effort it took to hold back his magic, Charlie fled from the room. The front door slammed shut and Mrs. Black’s screams accompanied Harry for the rest of the night. Slurs and put-downs Vernon and Petunia would have appreciated.

Harry didn’t bother shutting her up.

 

 

He woke around three in the afternoon. His head was pounding, his throat dry, a film in his mouth that reminded him he’d wretched after drinking a bottle of wine before he passed out. The room spun as he tried to sit up, that encouraged him to stay in bed even longer, all the while trying to keep the buzzing in his head and the throbbing behind his eye at a dull roar. If he couldn't gather his thoughts, he wouldn't have to think about last night. He wouldn't have to remember or clarify the awful things he'd said to Charlie. The shitty thing he'd done. When he was sure he wouldn’t vomit again he trudged downstairs, looking very much like a man on his way to the gallows, and filled a glass with water. He sat at the table in the kitchen and stared at the blank wall before him. 

A loud ringing startled him, had his wand drawn and an explosive hex on the tip of his tongue before he realized it was just the phone Hermione had bought for him. He let it ring.

And it rang. And rang.

Until Harry resigned his loneliness and answered with a raw croak, “‘ _Ello_?”

”Harry! Thank god—listen, I don’t know what happened between you and Charlie but Ron and Ginny are _livid_.”

”Right. Thanks for the warning.”

”They’ve just left to go see you. I’d come as a buffer but I’m meant to help the Brocklehurst’s move into their new safe house--"

Harry didn’t want to deal with this and there was nothing that said he had to. So, he simply wasn’t going to. Without another word to Hermione, he hung up, spelled his clothes clean, and disapparated. He felt the anger in his veins, the fire in his blood. Who were Ron and Ginny to get involved because he’d ended things with Charlie? It wasn’t their business and Harry had done it for Charlie. Maybe it would suck now, but Charlie would move on. He’d be better off.

The anger subsided the moment he realized where he was.

He hadn’t even been sure where he was going to end up, but when he'd arrived, he couldn't believe he'd waited this long to go back.

His magic subconsciously made sure to reappear him in an alleyway, concealed from any prying eyes. Or Muggle's. Harry supposed his most dominant thought when he apparated was that he wanted to go somewhere no one would find him.

Spinner's end was a sure bet.

Harry let himself in, the wards still accepted him, and he didn’t think about how they should have fallen with Snape’s death. He didn’t think about anything, except for the fact that Snape’s wine cellar was full and he could drink himself to death in peace.

A layer of dust thicker than that of the Restricted Section’s mostly untouched shelves covered the surfaces of each item, counter top, and shelf of Snape’s home. Harry flicked his wand and set up restoring it, with much the same effort he’d taken to renovating Grimmauld Place, once upon a time. He shuddered to think what Snape might’ve thought, had he been around to see what had become of his residence. It was a wonder he hadn’t thought to come back here before.

Once the dust had vanished, Harry set about observing the place. It had been almost two and a half years since he'd been there. Just after Christmas time. Well, after his botched suicide attempt. In the entryway of the kitchen, Harry remembered how Severus had cooked for him. How they'd gotten into a flour fight and Snape hadn't taken points away from Gryffindor. In the garden, he remembered Chester, who Harry had long since released. He wasn't fit to take care of himself, let alone a snake. Even if it was a garden one. The garden here was dead, after so long not having been tended, Harry supposed it had been bound to happen. He felt a twinge of guilt and regret as he closed and locked the door behind him. If he'd only thought sooner he might've been able to save them--

 _They're_ herbs _, Potter. Plant some more if you're so bothered._

The voice didn't startle him anymore. Harry knew it was only what he wished Severus was there to say to him. When it had first started happening, he’d been sure Snape was alive and trying to communicate with him. Which Hermione had tried very hard not to think him insane for as she explained that it was impossible. Severus was dead and he couldn’t keep hanging on like he’d been. It had taken time to believe her, but once he realized it was only his imagination, it soothed him still.

Harry sighed and ran his hand over his face, tired all over again from a trip down memory lane. He wandered to the bedroom and dropped gratefully on fresh, magically-cleaned sheets. 

It was no matter to him that it had only been two or three hours since he'd woken up, Harry felt himself dozing off and let it happen. His final though being that he'd take a trip to the market in the morning to find somethings to plant in the garden. And maybe some food for the fridge.

A bottle of whisky probably wouldn't hurt.

 

After sleeping off his everlasting hangover (and he hadn't even had a drink the day before), Harry woke fairly early with a weak plan for the day in the back of his mind.

First, he would have to finish tidying up. Magic worked well enough, but a thorough muggle clean would really do the trick.

It hadn't even registered to himself that he was planning to just move in. Grimmauld Place was fine where it was, dark and dilapidated. He didn't need anything from there. Except, perhaps, Snape's memories, which he'd left locked away in the library. 

_As long as they're locked away..._

His thoughts trailed off _._ They'd be safe where they were. No one would disturb them. If he decided to return to Grimmauld Place, he'd get them then. Not that he could really get any closer to Snape than living in his fucking home. There were cleaning products under the sink. Old but not totally expired. He transfigured a chair into a mop and set about the floors. He used magic to lift things out of the way which made the job markedly more easier. Once he'd finished the floors, Harry was pleasantly surprised at the way they shone. Almost like they'd never been left to dust.

**Author's Note:**

> Out of curiosity--I've had some muse for a 7th year, Female!Harry Potter fanfiction with similar undertones to A Sisyphean Endeavor. Meaning that I'm lazy and sort of just changing Harry's Gender in order to explore 7th year in a more AU/Original way. My muse is fucking with me. One minute I'm all about Post War angst, the next I'm all about female!Harry. Would anyone be interested in reading that? (Still Snarry, but instead of Harriet and Charlie having romantic undertones, I've changed it to Bill.) Oh, I've also made Harriet slightly more stable come 7th year. LOL --if you don't care just ignore me, or drop me a comment and let me know what you think!


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